How our culture of kink-shaming is making us much less sexually liberated than we think

In his new book, Modern Sexuality: The Truth about Sex and Relationships,Dr Michael Aaron suggests that there is still widespread stigma surrounding sexuality in the modern age. People who have unconventional sexual fantasies are forced into the shadows, and often do not reveal them even to their partners.

We used to called it the Grey Room but only laughed at the irony a few times. The only thing grey in here is the steel apparatus; the chains and chokers beside the bed, cold commodities placed on the end tables. A microwave and blender on the kitchen counter, the coffee mug on the coffee table, our home built from an Ikea flatpack, touched up with Brummer’s Sex Shop. It’s supposed to be the industrial age of the sexual revolution.

There’s another grey thing in the Grey Room, a laptop. The keyboard is soft, smooth and hot, even when the fans whirr inside it’s all warm air breathing into the bed sheets. The sleek plastic sinks into the silk but doesn’t melt, tenuous temperature – just on the edge. Fingers are fast and decisive, words are typed in straight-edge anatomy and create a link, surging through networks until the site is set on. Until the threat is made.

*

Jerry left the Grammy’s in a hurry, heading to find his target.

Over the last year he had been assigned to take out various celebrities by Major Nye in an attempt to distract the public. A series of secret organisations and missions had come too close to being revealed to the public. Better to distract them with pop culture drama than let them dwell on the political problems that could soon bring about total destruction.

Tonight’s hit was an actor whose popularity was started to go into decline. He had been the heartthrob of every English teenage girl until he got a family, then he was simply place on the shelf of those who were well and truly out of reach.

The illustrious Mr Cucumberpatch.

Jerry crept after him down the darkened street. Mrs Brunner had been right. Cucumberpatch arrived on time, strolling in the London evening air, no idea how fate was about to take a cruel twist and envelop him in the darkness forever.

Jerry took out his Needle Gun.

The idea of killing no longer held any meaning for him. He had shot so many men that he didn’t even think about it as he aimed the gun, finger hovering over the trigger. He was about to squeeze it when the actor suddenly cried out, “Rooty tooty point-n-shooty!”

Cucumberpatch dived down and Jerry cursed, firing several times as he gave chase. His target darted down an alleyway and Jerry followed, eager to complete his objective so that he could go back to his real job, maybe take the chopper to the countryside for a bit.

He heard the pitiful sound of a man crying.

Cucumberpatch was apparently trying to hide by becoming one with the ground. He wriggled down deeper as if hoping that his sky blue suit wouldn’t stick out like a sore celebrity at the BAFTAs.

For about twenty seconds there was absolute silence and then a ridiculously loud gasp for breath.

“Please, oh God, oh please don’t kill me!”

“Get up from down there,” Jerry sounded bored, as if he was tired of this game.

Cucumberpatch scrambled to his feet and Jerry pressed the gun against his head.

“I can give you money.”

“Got it.”

“Drugs?”

“Just had some, took a trip to Scotland. It was great.”

“Please, don’t kill me. I’m not just some civilian that will be forgotten about. I’m a celebrity, they’ll hunt you down.”

“They really won’t, you know. I was assigned to do this by the government. I’ve been coming for you for a long time.”

“Wait… wait a minute, you’re the creepy twitter guy!”

Jerry grinned in the moonlight. It was an eerie sight, and the last sight Cucumberpatch ever saw.